The Richobel Drabbles
by Daimhin
Summary: Drabbles about Dr Clarkson and Isobel Crawley. One and two-shots. Ongoing.
1. An Evening with Ice (part 1)

_AN: To those of you following the Pearl: thank you for your patience! The story will be finished before Christmas :)_

_This is a two-shot; the second part will be up later this week._

_If you have any prompts for future drabbles, please feel free to send them in!_

* * *

In an unusual move, the servants did not line up around the dining table, but walked towards the far end of the room. The last course was to be served on an immaculate, white-linen tablecloth in order to underscore the coloured buildings of which dessert consisted. Guests looked on in wonder, falling silent or uttering appreciation when they noticed what they were. This evening, the last line of trays carried a sparkling load of fruits; an exquisite display of ice making.

After people had collected their respective selections, the pleasant clinking of spoons and crystal resounded through the room. The fruit-like shapes at the buffet had made it possible to distinguish flavours, but no such luck from your seat. The colourful scoops in his flattened bowl became a mystery to Richard once he sat down again; who memorises what they are planning to eat? One by one he went over his choices, set on rediscovery. And red turned out to be cherry, green to stand for pear, or apple, depending on the tint, and orange signified melon or… oranges. He sampled the variety with pleasure, surprised by how pure the frozen bites tasted.

"Mrs Patmore has outdone herself tonight."

The Lady to his left murmured in agreement, but from his right no answer came. He felt Isobel shift, and lifted his gaze to find her with a frown on her head.

"I don't know this one."

Her spoon was empty, hovering in mid-air as she tried to name a particular savour. Her confusion made her appear lost, and Richard smiled at seeing her like that; he found it rather endearing.

"Which colour?"

"The yellow one."

He cast a look at her plate; he didn't have any yellow on his. The ice in question had a dark shade, not like anything he could remember from the buffet.

"Lemon?"

Isobel stared ahead absent-mindedly, drawing his attention to her lips when her tongue darted over them.

"No, it's not that…"

Richard cast a second, more deliberate look at her plate in an attempt to busy himself with the question at hand.

"How does it taste?"

"Well, it's sweet..."

Intent on finding out what kept escaping her, Isobel scooped up a second bite, and her eyes fluttered close in an effort to grasp the taste. She looked a picture and the man to her left tried in vain not to be distracted by it. Richard had acquired the habit to quell the longing this woman caused in him, but tonight she was radiant, and it proved difficult for him to ignore.

"... Like rosewater and sugar."

She nibbled the remnants off her lower lip, recognising a new sensation.

"And a bit like wine. Tart."

Her forehead was still creased when she opened her eyes again.

"What do you think it is?"

She looked at him blankly, unaware of the feelings her actions had evoked.

He blushed, offering a feeble answer. Trying to focus on her question.

"I wouldn't know."

She flashed a bright smile at him.

"In any case it does taste delicious…

What were you saying before? I think I interrupted you, Richard."

He shook his head, giving her an affectionate half-smile.

"Only that Mrs Patmore really has outdone herself this time."


	2. An Evening with Ice (part 2)

_AN: Part 2._

_Still nothing too serious; a little attempt to make you smile. :)_

* * *

For Doctor Clarkson, the dinner at the Abbey had ended with the warmth of not one, but two brandies, which on the journey home were already starting to demand their toll. Therefore, even though the driver had been instructed to stop by at his cottage as well, Richard told him not to bother. He longed for a gulp of fresh air, for the sobering rawness of winter; the evening filled with her laughter had seemed not only a blessing, for everyone to see, but also a curse, just for him. Like a light she had been, still was, now next to him in the car, permeating his self-control. Richard sighed. He could have sworn the Dowager had noticed it. Given the way she had scrutinised him after she had caught him staring at her cousin, he didn't think she could have missed it.

A crisp stillness enveloped them when the driver opened the door at Crawley House, and neither could help sensing an abrupt break with the cosiness of earlier. Whilst the car had been chilly, they had chatted, somehow warding off the cold, prolonging the evening's spell.

As their ride left them behind, driving off into the dark, Isobel took in the empty street. Tonight had been lovely, wonderful even, especially compared to the hollowness she usually felt. She'd rather forgotten how cheering company could be... For the first time in a long time, she re-acknowledged of her own accord that it was not wrong to feel happy again; and so Isobel willed herself not to let go of that warm feeling, turned to Richard with a smile on her lips.

"Would you like a brandy?" she asked, sparing a glance at her home, "I have to warn you, though, I told the maid not to wait for me; the house won't be warm."

Richard could see her cheeks, her nose turning pink in the wind. A shivering beauty.

"Or maybe coffee?" she offered, "I might join you; I didn't have any before."

A flurry of emotions showed in his features. She looked so pure, standing in the icy darkness, illuminated only by the stars. He knew he shouldn't stay; having to socialise with other people at the Abbey had been a merciful support, but no such buffer here. However much he wanted to, he couldn't stay, not when she was like_ this_.

"I'm sorry Mrs Crawley, but I should get going."

Richard's tone was polite, but distant. Isobel's title had slipped from his tongue inadvertently, an attest of his need to re-erect at least one of the boundaries that had been breached during the evening. He saw her eyebrows rise and fall in response, and the smile of disappointment which flashed across her face made him aware of what he was denying her. It caused him to look her in the eyes, to let her read his own in the hope to convey both his regret and the reasoning behind his answer, that he only meant the best for her.

Isobel seemed to understand what he was saying, because she faltered not too long before acquiescing. She could see the shadow of restrained hurt in his eyes, and she recognised it; she had seen it there before.

"Of course, Doctor Clarkson."

Gratitude engulfed him, and though he knew it wasn't much, he held out his arm in return.

"Can I walk you to your door?"

Isobel smiled again, an assuring, soft smile, and he knew he had done the right thing.

"That would be lovely."

And so Isobel limited herself to stretching out her hand, to link her arm through the one held out for her. She was forced to move a few feet, but didn't pay it much attention, oblivious of having stepped on a frozen puddle until the moment she slipped.

She reached out by reflex, and in a similar way Richard's arm came to encircle her waist, managing to steady her two-thirds-down.

"Are you all right?"

Isobel felt a laugh escape her, and nodded.

Richard's initial surprise at their sudden closeness started dwindling by the second as he helped her back up, and to his horror an acute awareness of it took its place.

To his irritation too, a battle reared its head, a battle he had dubbed_ irrelevant_ since the woman in his arms had turned him down; the battle between his wish to hold her close and the uncertainty of knowing how she'd feel about that. Growing more and more petulant over what his mind was churning out tonight, Richard felt the urge to take a large step back, to move away from her. His heart, nevertheless, did still harbour an emphatic need to protect this woman, so much that in the end he succeeded in simply relaxing his grip, letting Isobel regain her balance and duly softening his speech.

"You should be more careful."

Richard had received smiles from Isobel before, but in one particular aspect, the one she gave him now was different. The glitter he observed in her eyes was tender, akin to a preference he was all too familiar with.

"Do you mean in general, or just in this particular case, Richard?"

He couldn't quite believe his ears at that, and she saw his confusion reflected clearly in his eyes; he was looking at her now, intently, and she knew that if she'd speak again she'd lose her nerve, so she took heart and closed her eyes, and brushed her lips against his.

Soft was how her lips felt. Soft, like roses, soft like snow. After drinking in her beauty all evening, after all these years, he could now feel her, touch her... The taste of her was intoxicating; sweet was how she tasted, of sugar and of honey, and of something just like wine.

As they broke apart he kissed a path to her ear, smiling.

"Pineapple." he whispered.


	3. An Array of Flowers

_AN: Series 4 (SPOILERS)!_

* * *

**August**

He comes to know, just perchance.

_Roses._

Lady Grantham is talking rather loudly at the gathering, whilst engaged in a conversation with old Lady Grantham who herself sounds strangely complacent, pleased even. The countess is revelling in the fact that her cousin has received a bouquet of flowers - from a certain Lord Merton. Revelling; naturally. _Lord_ Merton.

He can't remember feeling this sick, nor his head being so crowded with whispers chanting _'N__ot yours'_.

**September**

He saw them in the village the other week, walking together. Not for the first time.

_ "It was very nice."_ she had said of it today, and he remembers the smile she had worn while talking about her pastime.

The doctor looks out over the rows of lavender in his hospital garden. In the last months they had been humming with bees. Now only strays visit_, to collect leftovers_.

Absent-mindedly he rubs some flowers between his fingers, bringing them to his nose to smell. They remind him of her.

**November**

The cold creeps through his layered clothing, nestles itself there as the village children lay down flowers. Poppies, in remembrance of the fallen.

He knows she visits Matthew today, from a confession heard in front of her fireplace one evening. And sure enough, after the service he sees her caress her grandson, disentangle herself from the family and slip away alone.

**December**

She comes in with a cold draft of air, which he can't feel due to the bustle in the hospital, but he does look up, and notices she's not alone. She walks over to the nearest patient immediately, while Merton hovers at the doorway. He can see her scanning the room, realise how occupied he is and lean over to a nurse nearby. Then she's gone again, but the nurse in question comes up to him a few moments later, telling him she's waiting at his office.

When he's finally able to get into the corridor, he sees the pair of them beneath a sprig of mistletoe, and _him_ staring at her with a look he suspects he himself sometimes wears. He fights the nausea in his stomach and retreats, oblivious of her gaze flitting to him, and he doesn't see her swallow nor the way her body turns away from the man before her.

Outside, he's grateful for the refreshing sting of the wind in his face, and his eyes are closed until he feels a warm hand on his arm, and then she's there in front of him, holding him, consoling him, and he forgets about the cold.

* * *

_AN: Merry Christmas! :)_


End file.
